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Porcelain House
When I was young, I used to take long walks in the forest by my house. I always went alone, for I needed a way to get away from others and have some time for myself. My walks usually began just after dinner, in the calm period before sunset. Thankfully, my parents had no objections to my walks; they agreed that I should have some time to myself. The trail that I used to take was a long, winding dirt path, surrounded by a colony of tall oak trees. The time of day was just right for the wind to blow through my flowing black hair in graceful gales. Even to this day, I remember the chirping of birds and the scent of lush green grass that always brought me back to this tranquil path. One day, I decided to go off the beaten path a little. See, the dirt trail that I loved so much never seemed to change from day to day, so I wanted to see what else the forest had to offer. About halfway down the trail, I veered off to the left, and I was no longer on the trail. The forest floor I was now on was on an incline, and I started to hike up the hill. This new part of the forest was more beautiful than I could have imagined: there was a flowing stream a few feet up from the trail, and the trees started to dissipate, allowing the bright sunlight to flow down and warm up my face. I loved this feeling so much. Still in ecstasy, I continued up the hill. As I walked further and further forward, the birds fell silent. The wind became less refreshing, and the air turned denser. I was still hoping to see more of the forest, so I didn’t turn back at that point. Eventually, I came across a dilapidated old house, in the middle of an empty grove. A few trees surrounded the house, but the area in which the house sat was mostly bare. The house itself was covered in vines and other creeping vegetation. The wood looked as if it was rotting, and nails were sticking out of the faded front porch. I walked up the stairs onto the porch, and I tried to peer in the window, but all I could see were some old dusty curtains that blocked my vision of the rest of the house. Against my better judgment, I decided to try and open the door, and I was surprised to see that it was unlocked. I entered the house, and I was shocked by what I saw. It was a quaint little house, and it looked in pristine condition. There was a broom closet to my left, and the room just ahead of me had a polished dinner table adorned with clean plates and tableware. The living room was to my right, and it contained a white couch and an old, boxy television, each without a speck of dust on them. The floors had no sign of dirt either, for they were just white tiles that turned to tan carpeting in the living room. Most prominent in the house was the sheer amount of porcelain that was around the house. I could see several cabinets of china in the kitchen from where I was standing, and the living room had three cabinets of its own. Just to my right, before the living room, there was a pedestal with a china vase, which contained a fragrant and lively violet. I had thought the house was empty, and just as I was about to leave, a raspy voice had crawled out from the kitchen in front of me. “Who…who are you…?” the voice asked. My heart started to beat rapidly, and as I reached for the doorknob, the voice had erupted once more. “Answer me! Who…are…you!?” I turned and saw the man standing in the archway before the kitchen. He was adorned in old, wrinkled dress clothes. He had a rugged complexion, with a stubbly beard and long gnarled hair. His eyes were brown but bloodshot, and as he spoke I could see yellowing, disfigured teeth. As I saw the man, I grimaced and winced backward at the sight of him. I walked backwards, and I hit the door as a result. The force of my collision with the door caused the porcelain vase at my right to fall and shatter on the tile floor. A look of disgust grew on his face, as he watched the vase turn to a scattered white memory. He ran towards me and pushed me aside as he reached for a broom in the closet beside me. He kneeled down and started to sweep up the vase and the soil. He gently picked up the violet and carried it to the kitchen, where he put it in a glass mason jar with water and placed it on the table. He walked back to the pile of porcelain that had he had swept aside, kneeled down, and stared back at me. “She…loved…porcelain,” he said in a shriveled, weakening voice. “One summer, I bought her a vase, and she told me it was her…prized possession.” He picked up some shards with his bare hands, as he started to bleed onto the tile floor. Looking endearingly at one piece, he kissed it, cutting his lower lip in the process. I was too dumbfounded by the sight of him and his connection to the porcelain to want to leave. I just wanted to stay and see what would happen. “She loved me so much, you know that,” he said looking back at me. “Just before she passed, she handed me a china vase and said, ‘Thank you for all you have done for me. The china we shared was so beautiful…’” He started to sob into his sanguine hands, as a torrent of blood and tears started to cascade from his old hands. “You…you’ve ruined me! GET OUT, NOW!” He stood up and he ran to his cabinets. He started to tear out porcelain from his cabinets, and he angrily threw it at me. One plate struck my head, and it shattered into pieces in front of me. I ran out of the house, and as I dashed past the entrance to the grove, I heard a loud gunshot. My God, is he shooting at me?, I thought as I leaped past the stream and onto the dirt trail. The sun began to set as I walked towards my house and towards my parents. Blissfully unaware of what had happened, they believed me as I told them I had a good walk. I never told them about the man or the house, as I was afraid they wouldn’t let me walk anymore. I still walked the trail for many years until childhood escaped me. I wasn’t afraid of the trail; rather, I was happy to walk along it as long as I didn’t stray from the path again. To this day, I don’t know what became of the distraught porcelain man. I assumed he died of old age at some point, but I had wondered about that gunshot I had heard leaving his run-down property… Creepypasta by ShinySharpedo Category:Creepypasta Category:Creepypastas Category:Original Story Category:Real Life